


Firearms and Sexytimes

by therealfroggy



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: First Time, Gunplay, M/M, Mild Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:31:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/therealfroggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casey sees Chuck handling his guns and gets all hot and bothered. Screw professionalism; this requires sex!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firearms and Sexytimes

Chuck is on the couch in Ellie and Awesome's living room, watching a game with them, when the room suddenly goes entirely dark and the TV dies with a little flash. In the sudden, complete darkness Chuck's first thought is, _Terrorist attack!_ and he is about to yell at his sister and her fiancé to get down, but Awesome sighs heavily.

“Oh, man, power outage! Not awesome, dude.”

And Chuck sinks back into the couch a little, realising that his future brother-in-law is probably right. Blackouts happen; they're normal. And if there had been a terrorist attack, Sarah and Casey would probably be coming in, guns blazing, in about two-point-five seconds.

He waits for three seconds more and agrees, silently, with Awesome.

“Babe, you wanna light all the candles and take a long bath?” Awesome asks Ellie in the dark, and Chuck is glad his sister can't see his grimace of overshare.

Just then, Chuck's phone beeps, and he picks it up. The screen lights up a small space around him. The text is from Casey, and the agent's angry face is startlingly visible for a moment until Chuck pulls up the message.

_All surveillance down. If you're not over here in three minutes I'm coming in after you._

Chuck sighs. Of course. Now that the NSA can't listen to him in the safety of his own home (or his sister's own home), they want him to go and sit quietly in a place where he can be listened to. Or at least watched, as Casey is rarely interested in hearing anything Chuck has to say. He gets to his feet.

“Hey, that was John Casey, you know the guy from work? He's having a poker night at his place, so I'll just... be right across the courtyard,” Chuck says, trying to sound as honest as he can. He finds it's a lot easier to lie to Ellie when he's not actually about to do something secret, dangerous or illegal. “You guys enjoy the blackout.”

“Cool, bro,” Awesome says, and Chuck pockets his phone as he escapes the escalating happy murmurs of Ellie.

Dude. A guy's sister, come on.

Chuck barely has time to raise his hand to knock before Casey is barking at him, “Come in already!” Chuck sighs and follows orders.

“So, the US government is worried that I might snub my toe in the dark, huh?” Chuck asks, closing the door behind him.

Casey is sitting at the dining table, illuminated by candles and a few flashlights placed strategically around the room. What seems like half an armoury is laid out on the tabletop, demonstrating clearly that even while nothing else is going on, Casey has no hobby but Being A Spy. His big hands are working deftly at disassembling a smallish gun.

Smallish for Casey, of course. To Chuck, it seems pretty intimidating.

“I called Walker, she's checked it out, it's a regular blackout,” Casey grumbles. “But until the surveillance equipment is back online, you're not leaving my sight.”

“Oh joy,” Chuck says with a brave grin. “So, what are we doing? Planning counter-terrorist strikes? Improving computer security in the White House? Discussing a potential hostile takeover of the BuyMore?”

“ _I_ am cleaning my guns,” Casey says with exasperation. “ _You_ can entertain yourself, Bartowski.”

Chuck scratches at the back of his head. “Obviously watching TV is out of the question. Do you have a deck of cards? I could play Solitaire.”

Casey grunts in the affirmative and nods at a chest of drawers. “Top drawer.”

Chuck gets his cards and settles down at the other end of the dining table to lay out his game. For about ten minutes, he's not bored. After the first game comes to a quick conclusion, however, Chuck Bartowski is bored out of his skin.

“I'm feeling useless,” he tells Casey. “Really. It's ridiculous. We don't know how long I'll be stuck here, and I was never good at sitting still. You know, sometimes I start programming random little games for Morgan at work, if there's nothing going on and you guys don't need help saving the world, and -”

“Bartowski,” Casey growls, “shut your hole. I will duct tape your face if you don't stop talking.”

Chuck smiles a little at him. “Yeah, okay. But seriously, isn't there anything else I could do? Hey, I could help you clean those. You could teach me, I could make myself useful in the field at some point with that.”

Casey studies him for a moment, a slight frown on the gruff agent's face. Then the big man shrugs. “Okay. But don't you dare press any triggers, doofus, and don't touch Henrietta.”

Chuck can feel his eyebrows raise. “Henrietta?”

“The Colt,” Casey explains, and when Chuck doesn't look any the wiser, he snorts and points. “Her.”

“Okay, guns are female, got it,” Chuck says, trying not to grin. He shifts his chair over so he's sitting nearly next to Casey. “So... want to teach me an actual spy-related skill?”

Casey spends the next fifteen minutes growling at Chuck to be careful and that he's doing it wrong, but eventually Chuck does manage to disassemble a gun. A medium-sized, black handgun that he couldn't name if he was asked at gunpoint. When the parts are all separately placed before Chuck, Casey begins pointing at them and explaining their names.

Barrel. Hammer. Firing pin. Whatever. Chuck tries to remember it all, but he's not sure it'll be there in the morning. Anywho, the important part is that he knows how to put the thing back together, right?

Casey shows him how to use long, thin instruments and smooth cloths to clean the separate parts, making sure to get every last speck of powder residue off. Chuck works diligently, and he actually thinks he could be good at this. Casey goes back to his own gun, his precious Henrietta, and Chuck slowly begins to put the parts back together. It all seems to fit into place under his hands, and he is impressed with himself – he thought he could only do this kind of thing to computers, but really, since he got his first Lego kit as a child, he's been good with his hands.

 _That's what she said,_ Chuck thinks with a grin and reaches for the next gun.

He's midway through polishing the barrel when he happens to look up at Casey and finds the agent staring at him. Casey's hands lie limply on the table, still holding a clip and a bullet that should go in said clip. The agent's mouth is slightly open, his cheeks are just a touch darker than usual, his eyes focused on Chuck with intensity. And then he shifts his hips a fraction, and Chuck's gaze is automatically drawn to Casey's crotch.

Where his pants are straining fit to burst. Because Casey is blatantly and openly hard. And the bulge Chuck can see there puts anything he might have thought about Casey's asexuality to shame. Chuck, aware that he is gaping a little himself, drags his eyes up to meet Casey's, and sees the exact moment when realization dawns on Casey's face.

“Oh, crap,” Casey says hoarsely.

Chuck swallows against his suddenly dry throat. “Gnuh. Casey?”

Grunt.

“You're, uh, you're...”

“It's the guns,” Casey says in a strangled, rushed whisper. “You're cleaning them and... I can't help it.”

The rough, gritted quality of his voice makes Chuck go all shivery on the inside.

“So... You're into guns. I mean, obviously, we all know that,” Chuck babbles, and he's slowly putting the gun parts back on the table. “And that's fine, you know, it's not like I thought you could ever react like this to me, I mean, that's just crazy, right, and... and... wow, you're really packing there. In the pants department.”

Casey gives a mortified groan and covers his eyes with a hand. “Bartowski. Please, stop talking, or I will kill myself right now.”

“No, hey, Casey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” Chuck says in a rush. “It's like if someone forced me to watch porn, I get it, it's not personal. I can... I can leave.”

Casey throws the gun parts to the table, too, and lunges out of his chair until he is looming over Chuck, big, competent hands heavy on Chuck's shoulders. Then he reaches for the table, picks up one of the still-assembled guns and holds it, barrel up, next to Chuck's ear.

“ _Bartowski_. You have five seconds to get out before I'll be damn well _compromised_ , you get me?”

Chuck doesn't know what the hell is riding him as he slowly turns his head to the side and licks along the barrel of the gun. It tastes disgustingly like metal and oil, but he does it anyway, then turns back and stares Casey right in the face.

“So compromise me.”

Casey's lips are suddenly bared in a vicious grin and then his hand is in Chuck's fluffy hair, fisting hard at the back of the nerd's head and tugging. Chuck has no choice but to lean back and expose his throat entirely to Casey's mercy.

The first hard bite makes Chuck moan. The long, wet swipe of a tongue which follows turns the moan into a drawn-out sound which Chuck will come to firmly deny ever having made. When Casey finally kisses him, Chuck allows himself to believe this will not end in violence and he slips his hands tentatively up to bracket that manly, Michaelangelo-produced jaw.

“I'm gonna throw you over this table and fuck you until you can't walk,” Casey growls, pulling back long enough to meet Chuck's eyes before going in for another killer kiss.

“Oh God, uh, please use lube,” Chuck blurts out, then feels himself blush. “I mean... I've done research, I know there needs to be lube.”

“You did research?” Casey demands, leaning back a little, his eyes glittering darkly. “What, did you go around planning for this?”

“Not this, specifically, but a guy likes to indulge in certain fantasies, y'know?” Chuck babbles with fear making his voice shake. “So, slick?”

Casey grabs him by the upper arms and drags him to his feet. Still kissing his asset, Casey swings them around, then pushes Chuck around and down. Chuck allows himself to be pressed into the tabletop, but winces and gasps when he feels guns dig into his stomach.

“Casey, are these secure?”

“Safety on,” Casey groans, and Chuck doesn't need to see his face in order to imagine the look in his eyes. “Hand me the gun oil, Bartowski.”

Chuck almost chokes on his own tongue, but he does as he's told – he knows what the gun oil is for, but he's not entirely certain it'll work. But if he complains, or argues, Casey might decide it isn't worth it and leave Chuck hanging.

Or lying, as the case may be.

Chuck bites his lip to keep still when he feels Casey's hands at his own belt. His jeans and shorts are pushed down to mid-thigh in a rough motion, and then Chuck can feel motion behind him indicating that Casey is likewise getting naked enough for sex to happen. It hits him, at that moment, like a freight train: he is about to be fucked, for the first time, bent over a table full of guns. By his handler.

“Oh, God,” Chuck whimpers, and steels himself for the inevitable... Casey to happen.

“I need you to relax for this, Bartowski,” Casey says, and his voice is heated, lusty. He's suddenly bending low enough to murmur the words right into Chuck's ear. “I'm under orders to protect the Intersect from harm. I would hate to have to explain to General Beckman why you are being treated for this particular type of injuries.”

Chuck shudders all over, partly with fear and partly with arousal. “Uh, yeah, I don't know if I can do that. I've never done this before, and frankly, I saw that bulge in your pants, you're gonna tear me in two. Just saying.”

Casey lets out something that might be a chuckle, but then he quiets. “You've never...?”

“Nope,” Chuck says, beginning to feel more than a little ridiculous. He's lying-or-standing there, draped over the table, with guns digging into his chest and his ass bared – and Casey is interrogating him about his lack of diversity where sexual partners are concerned.

“Then it's a good thing I aced that particular lesson in seduction class,” Casey says, and his hands are hot and strong on Chuck's hips. “Just try to enjoy it.”

Chuck does, when two fingers are pushing firmly but slowly against a part of his body that usually sees no daylight. He can feel the slick on them and it should gross him out, but he can also feel Casey's callouses and that is hotter than it has any right to be. With two fingers up his ass and the muzzle of a revolver right under his nose, Chuck gives a little helpless moan of pleasure.

“That's right, Bartowski, feel how good this is gonna be,” Casey growls. “Feel how good it's gonna be when I get inside you.”

Chuck gasps for air. It's so intense; invasive and yet fulfilling. He wriggles a little, trying to get comfortable. He can hear the cap on the oil bottle snapping, and Casey's hand is removed only to return with three fingers.

It takes four fingers and a lot of time before Chuck actually stops feeling weird about this, but he can't stop feeling weird about the fact that Casey is simultaneously so rough and so gentle. The agent takes his sweet time loosening Chuck, fingers sliding easily inside him while Casey mutters encouragements. But they seem to have gone from Casey barely tolerating Chuck to Casey needing desperately to fuck Chuck in a disturbingly short span of time.

“Fuck, Bartowski, I can't wait any more,” Casey groans when Chuck gasps and arches his back. “Don't move, now.”

And then Chuck can feel Casey's dick, a huge, smooth, hot presence, pressing inside him. He cries out at the sheer shock of it. Casey curses a blue streak, but stops.

“What?” he demands.

“No, keep going,” Chuck pants. He's trembling all over, and there's a burn that makes it hard to speak, but he needs to let Casey know that he's okay. “Just new to this, is all.”

Casey exhales, long and loud, and pushes in until Chuck can feel the warmth of his hips flush against his own. They don't move for a few seconds, then Casey pushes himself up and rocks a fraction back and forth. Chuck is still holding his breath.

“Breathe, kid. A long, deep breath.”

Chuck's air explodes harshly out of him, and then he does as he's told and sighs deeply. His body loosens around itself and his skin itches with the sensation running all over it. He takes another deep breath, and this time it's easier to push himself through the residual burn.

“Okay,” Chuck breathes, and then sobs out a laugh. “Oh, God, I can't believe this.”

“You will tomorrow, when you can't sit down,” Casey says, and the grin is once more apparent in his voice. He places those hard, big hands on Chuck's hips and clenches a little. Chuck desperately hopes there will be bruises.

“I've wanted to pound your ass for _months_ ,” Casey growls, and he begins thrusting deep and slow. “You've had this coming for years, I'll bet my licence.”

“Whaaat,” Chuck moans, because Casey is fucking his tongue into immobility.

“Yeah, with your smart mouth, and your stupid lady feelings,” Casey growls, and his thrusts quicken, harden. It feels like he's fucking this into Chuck's body as well as saying it into the relative darkness around them. “You _need_ a good fucking.”

“Yes,” Chuck readily agrees, feeling Casey graze his prostate and wow, that does really feel amazing, just like advertised. “Yeah, just there, Christ, Casey!”

“And then you come in and start playing with a man's guns,” Casey continues. “Fuck, Bartowski, do you know what it did to me, seeing you handle my gear like that? No way are you ever getting near my guns in the field. I'd have to fuck you in the van.”

Chuck cries out again. It's Casey; his voice, his hands, the heat of him and his _presence_ , it just makes Chuck painfully hard and he needs so badly to come.

“Please,” he begs, rocking back onto the nearly painful thrusts. “Please, let me...”

“Let me show you how it's done,” Casey snarls, and he leans down to curl his hand around Chuck's straining erection. The younger man gives a shout of surprised pleasure, and when that big, capable, calloused hand begins stroking, it's a matter of seconds before Chuck is shooting all over the place and jerking helplessly in Casey's grip.

“Casey!”

“Good boy, Chuck,” Casey says disdainfully, and he wipes his hand down Chuck's back – dragging his own come over his pale skin. Chuck's body spasms in aftershocks.

“Christ,” Casey moans, and he suddenly pulls out, so roughly that Chuck can't contain his pained sound, and Chuck can feel liquid heat splashing all over his ass, his thighs. He can feel Casey's hands on his hips, clenching erratically and leaning so much solid weight on him.

Oh, God. Casey just came all over him. Casey just fucked him. On guns.

“Wow,” Chuck mutters, mostly to himself. His whole body is still throbbing with tension, with pleasure, with a little bit of fear and exhilaration. It's a heady mix, and he can't really gather the strength to push himself off the table, so he keeps lying there, his legs barely keeping upright underneath him.

“You could say that,” Casey grunts, and then he's moving away from Chuck; the younger man can't feel his solid heat anymore. There's the sound of Casey pulling his zipper up, and Chuck slowly begins pushing off the table.

“Whoa,” the nerd gasps as his legs give out under him and he has to hang on to the table just to stay on his feet. He really, really wants to pull his pants up and ruck his shirt back down, thank you for creasing that beyond repair, agent Casey, but he just can't find the strength. “Guh.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Casey snarls, and then Chuck finds himself manhandled until he is upright and tucked back in his pants, and Casey is surveying him with a critical gaze.

“So... that was fun,” Chuck begins with a hopeful grin.

“You can't go back in your apartment looking like that, your sister will know you didn't come here for poker night,” Casey says, suddenly all business, and then he's grabbing Chuck's arm and hauling him along. “Come on, you need a shower.”

The water is almost lukewarm, because the boiler is pretty big and still retains some of the heat from the day before the power outage. Casey pushes him around in there, but Chuck is too amazed at the fact that Casey is actually in the shower with him to protest. The agent mutters something about frigid water fast approaching, and as Chuck is having his back rigorously scrubbed the spray suddenly turns icy and he yelps.

Casey rinses them both off so quickly Chuck's head spins a little. Then they're standing there, drying off, in the world's most bizarre silence – in Casey's bathroom. Chuck resists the urge to cover up his man parts; now that he can see John Casey in the buff, standing tall and unabashed like that, he feels ridiculously scrawny in comparison.

But then, professional wrestlers feel scrawny when standing next to Casey.

“Are we...” Chuck begins, but Casey rolls his eyes and begins pushing him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Chuck's stomach flips. Again? Now?

“Save the lady feelings for Walker, Bartowski,” Casey grunts. “I just compromised my position and my cover because you wanted to play with guns. The least you can do is not tell anyone and never speak of this. Ever.”

“Okay, I can do that,” Chuck assures him.

Casey drops the towel and Chuck swears the sound he makes is not a suppressed moan. The agent begins digging through drawers for shorts, and hands one pair to Chuck before starting to put one on himself.

“Grr,” Casey comments.

“But, uh, what if the asset were to feel... unsafe in the apartment? Would the asset then be allowed to, say, sleep here?” Chuck asks hesitantly. He can't stop staring at Casey's – frankly amazing – body. He wants to lick it. All over.

“You're not ten, Bartowski!” Casey barks.

“Well, what if the asset needs a good fucking, then?” Chuck continues, feeling bolder now that he's dressed in shorts and a t-shirt handed him by Casey.

Casey stops short, turned towards the dresser with a pair of jeans dangling from one hand, and pauses. He puts the jeans back down, then he turns around to look at Chuck, his face pulled into one of his more approachable glares, namely, the I'm Not Sure I Follow-Glare. “What?”

“I mean... What if I see you cleaning your guns again?” Chuck says, smiling now. Casey isn't completely opposed to this. “I would get desperate pretty quick.”

Casey barks out a laugh, but then reins himself in. “Have some self-respect, kid.”

“Nope, not if a complete lack of such will get me laid,” Chuck insists. 

Casey studies him for a moment, and then that mad dog grin spreads over his face again. The familiar mixture of fear and arousal surges through Chuck's body again, and man, how long has it been, since he apparently can't wait a half hour before he gets hard again?

“Okay, fine, fucking is allowed,” Casey consents. “But none of your touchy-feely crap, Bartowski, I mean it!”

“Sure, sure,” Chuck placates him, holding up his hands. “Just firearms and sexytimes. So, are you going to give me a chance to show you what else I've been researching, related to the groin area?”

Casey smirks and pulls off the wifebeater he just went to such trouble putting on. “Okay, Bartowski. Get ready for round two.”


End file.
